


Wilson's Hobby

by KingMythos



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 04:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5813698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingMythos/pseuds/KingMythos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Not everyone is born talented at their passion, House. Some people have to work for it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Red-rimmed eyes swept an accusing gaze over a white floor - white only due to the excessive amount of pieces of paper populating it. Not a single patch of the wooden floor showed through, and Wilson sighed, as he found himself trapped cross-legged on the only amount of empty floor left, surrounded by his work.  
Well… Maybe work was the wrong word to use. Sure, it was definitely something he was working on (and incredibly hard, thank you very much), though it had nothing to do with tumors, death, or chemotherapy - instead it was a hobby. One that he should have found fun, yet tonight he instead finds himself on the brink of tears and stressed beyond belief.

The papers scattered across his floor were all covered in writing. Originally, they weren’t all over the floor, they were neat and organised within their own different coloured folders. Tonight, however, Wilson was in a particularly self-loathing mood and was being so incredibly critical of his own writing that he actually managed to offend himself.  
Sighing, Wilson held his face in his hands, mildly surprised as he felt moisture touch his palms. Maybe it seemed silly to become so stressed over a mere story that he was attempting to write, but when you get to the point in writer’s block where every sentence that could’ve been instantly gets erased, it dawns upon you that you simply aren’t supposed to be a writer.  
Yet he can’t tear himself away.

It was only fifteen minutes later that Wilson’s misery was discovered.  
Right as he had managed to stop crying, Wilson had picked up one of the sheets of paper to sadly stare at it. All these papers were now disorganized, it would take hours upon hours to put them back where they were meant to go. And then, only seconds to empty the folders to the floor when he has another nervous breakdown.  
What if he cleans it all up, and then he does it again? Wilson felt the bastard tears come back, and he drew his knees up to his chest, hiding his face. His body shook as he tried to think about the plot - but his brain wasn’t working. His thoughts raced, slipping out of his grip, and everything felt as scattered and disorganized as the pages around him. And then-

“Hey.” It took Wilson a good minute to realize that he’d been spoken to. Physical sensation came back as he drew himself out of his thoughts, and he noticed that he was now in the fetal position, shivering like tiny kitten that had just been pulled out of a river. That’s basically how he felt right now. Helpless, with damage to his pride, as he realized that he had been found. He opened his bleary eyes and blinked away the moisture so he could focus on what was happening.  
He was met with a pair of strikingly blue eyes, inches from his own. Oh. House.  
“What?” Wilson snapped, sitting up and pulling his sweater down where it had rode up. House blinked inquisitively at him, and Wilson braced himself for mocking as he wiped his eyes and ignored his friend, who was sat on the floor in front of him. How did he even get there?

“Am I not allowed to be inside my apartment?” House asked innocently, before looking around the room at all the papers. “What’s all this? Writing a new... Porno?” Wilson grunted as he stood up, and House stood with him. Wilson refused to acknowledge that House hadn’t sat on his works, he’d instead pushed some papers aside so he could sit down.  
“How long have you been here?”  
“Long enough to know that you blow snot bubbles when you cry.” House mocked halfheartedly, much more enthralled in Wilson’s work than in Wilson himself. “Why is it all over the floor?”  
“There was an incident.” Wilson responded quietly, rubbing his neck in embarrassment.  
“The hell does that mean?” House asked, briefly catching Wilson’s eyes before looking back to the floor, bending down to pick one of the pages up. Wilson quickly snatched it away. House scowled and pulled a face. “What, is it top-secret? Or is it your gay fantasies again? I told you to hide those from me, you know it hurts when I get erections. You need to be more sensitive about my ‘condition’.” House deadpanned, though Wilson knew unfortunately well that House’s sense of humor resolved largely around fucking with people. So instead of even trying to react to what he’d just heard, Wilson just grunted and rubbed harshly at his eyes.  
“House.” Wilson sighed in exasperation. “Just get out.”  
“Come on, you can’t tell me you’ve been writing some sort of mega-novel in secret and I’m not allowed to read it?”  
“No, I just don’t want you to read it. It’s terrible.” Wilson crossed his arms and looked away, the self-hatred threatening to bubble up again. House blinked, wanting to make a joke about kink-shaming, yet for some reason he just couldn’t. Silence fell upon the room as House wondered why his brain was telling him to stop.

“Well what’s it about?” House asked innocently. Wilson sighed for the millionth time, shaking his head as he blinked sadly at the papers that he kept deliberately stepping on. Once again, he ignored the fact that House was not treading on his papers at all, because that was completely one hundred percent irrelevant.  
“I don’t even know anymore. It’s a mess, House.” Wilson said softly.  
House gazed owlishly at him, an uncommon expression to be seen on House’s face, though not entirely unheard of. He’d been on the receiving end of these stares a few times, usually when House was genuinely intrigued in something that wasn’t completely inappropriate. So, you can kind of see why it’s rare.  
“How is it a mess? It’s just writing.” House seemingly had attempted to keep some form of mocking in his tone, though it fell flat as curiosity won over.  
“You wouldn’t understand, you’ve never tried to write.” This time House gave him a scoff and a sneer, and Wilson felt oddly comfortable that House was now more in-character.  
“How would you know that? I’ve written plenty of works involving you and Chase, though I don’t think that’s very PG-13.”

Wilson blinked, then scowled, turning away.  
“Look, I think it’s better that I be left alone.”  
“Apparently you’ve forgotten that I live here. It’s nearly three in the morning, where would I even go?” Wilson’s eyes popped open.  
“It’s that late? I have work in the morning!” Wilson dropped to his knees and desperately began to gather up papers, ripping some and crinkling some more. He was quickly halted by a firm hand on his shoulder.  
“Wilson.” House said rather sternly, and for some reason all the papers Wilson had in his arms were ungracefully dropped to the floor. He honestly felt like he’d been caught taking five cookies instead of two, and he really wasn’t sure why. “Stop. Talk to me.”  
“...About?” Wilson asked rather nervously, pushing himself up to stand, avoiding House’s yet again owlish expression.  
“You know what. Talk about your story. Why is it a mess?” House asked, and Wilson trod ungracefully over his paper, so that he could exit the room and stand freely in the lounge. House followed him, pushing paper aside with his cane and creating some sort of pathway. House tilted his head towards the couch, and Wilson sighed, plopping down on his side and hiding his face in his hands. House left the room for a moment, and Wilson heard clinking and the sound of liquid being poured, before House limped heavily back into the room, cane hooked around his forearm with a glass in each hand. He felt the chair shift beside him as House sat down. Wilson could feel eyes burning holes into him like lasers.

“Fine.” Wilson sniffed, wiping away a stray tear had wormed it’s way out of his tear duct as he lifted his head. House gave him a look and handed him a glass of scotch, which Wilson took thankfully. “It’s just all been a disorganized process. I came up with the original idea in a draft, and I liked it, so I decided to rewrite it again as a second version to see where it took me. I started to do a lot of research, so I changed a lot of aspects about the story, and wrote it up a third time. Then I realized how much I hated all my ideas, and… Now I’m stuck on the fourth.”  
House blinked.  
“How long have you been working on this?”  
“...Six months.”  
“Wow.” House somehow managed to hold in his laughter, and let out a long breath instead. “Why are you still working on this if it’s so terrible?”  
“Because I want to.” Wilson grumbled, taking a large swig of his drink, ashamed that he’d really believed that House might have actually understood him. “Not everyone is born talented at their passion, House. Some people have to work for it.”

This shut House up for a while. Wilson shifted uncomfortably, draining the rest of his drink as those calculating eyes scanned him up and down. Finally, House said:  
“I want to read it.”  
“No.”  
House stood up, and Wilson gave him a death-glare. “Don’t you dare.”  
“Why would I try to do that? I’m a cripple, I’d never get there in time.” House said in that high, innocent voice he liked to use when wanting to sound like a child. Well, that’s what Wilson made of it, anyway.  
“Well… What are you do...ing…” Wilson slurred, and he blinked, his vision starting to go black around the edges. Wilson gazed furiously at House when he realized, and stood up aggressively. “You… You drugged me!” Wilson tried to lunge for him, but he felt himself falling, and the last thing he felt before passing out was House’s strong arms wrapping around to catch him.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wilson.”  
A pounding headache instantly hit in, and Wilson groaned, blinking away the overpowering brightness as he came to. Trying to remember what was going on, it came back to him after a second, and he instantly attempted to hit House, who was looking down at him. “Hey! Stop.”  
“I can’t believe you drugged me, again! Wait, no, yes I can, because it’s you!” Wilson snarled, then squeezed his eyes shut tight as the headache persisted. Wilson could practically hear House’s smirk, yet when he opened his eyes, he was taken aback at the look of… Admiration…? On House’s face.  
“I read your book.”  
“So?” Wilson grunted halfheartedly, tearing his eyes away from the foreign look on House’s face, feeling the shame setting in.  
“You must really enjoy self-pity, because it wasn’t as bad as you liked to say it was.”  
“Shut up. It’s not a… A joke.” Wilson rolled over on the couch, burying his face in the cushions in frustration.  
“Do I look like I’m joking?”  
“Yeah, you have one of those faces.” Wilson snarled. House sighed dramatically.  
“I’m trying to tell you it was good, okay?” Wilson only scoffed in response.

Angrily, House stood and limped away. Wilson stayed there for a while, until he realized that House had probably gone to bed and wasn’t coming back. Wilson sat up, and sadly trudged his way back to the study, but was taken aback when he opened the door.  
The papers were gone.  
His four different coloured folders sat neatly on his desk, fat with paper. Slowly, Wilson approached them, and opened one cautiously.  
The ripped pages had been sellotaped back together. Even the tiniest rips had a bit of tape on them. The crinkles appeared to have been smoothed out as best as possible. Not everything was in the right place, but obviously House had made a damn good effort to put them back in order.  
Wilson was stunned. _How long had this taken him?_ Then his eyes widened with shock, and he checked the time.  
_Holy shit, I’m two hours late._

Right as he was about to begin rushing and screaming, he turned and bumped directly into House who had been stood behind him. A hand was placed reassuringly on his shoulder.  
“Relax. I got us both a sick day.” Wilson raised an eyebrow.  
“Us, a sick day, on the same day? How did Cuddy agree?”  
“I told her it was contagious. Horrible diarrhea. She wouldn’t want to come over and investigate.”  
“She’s a doctor, House. She’s obviously dealt with worse.”  
“Not willingly.” House gave him a wolfish grin. Then Wilson remembered why he was here, and he blinked nervously at House, taking in a shuddered breath. House noticed, and dropped the grin, and instead inquisitively stared at him.  
“You… You did all of this. You taped up the rips in the pages. ...Why?”  
“Because,” House said, limping past Wilson to gaze at the folders. “it was worth it.” Wilson gaped like a fish, taken aback. House… He truly liked it? He- Wait.  
It took him a second, but he remembered who he was dealing with, and his eyes narrowed.  
“Why are you being so nice to me? Wilson said suspiciously. House grunted at him, waving a hand to dismiss the skeptical doctor.  
“Why is everything conspiracy with you? Can’t I do something nice for once?” House countered.  
“No, you can’t, House!” Wilson’s eyes went wide. “Are you on something?”  
“No!” House said defensively, feeling rather offended as he took a step towards Wilson.  
“Then you’re bargaining for something you’ve already done to be forgiven! Or… Or you want a favor to be returned! Or-”  
“Or I think the story was good!”  
“Bullshit!”  
“Wilson, you’re a fucking idiot!” 

Time stopped.  
It was odd, really, though not unpleasant - the scrape of stubble against his face, the pressing of lips against his own. Sculpted over soft. New, intriguing. The sound of a cane clattering to the floor. A scent that he’d expected his own skin to be coated with. Having to tilt his head upwards. Hands larger than his own holding his - lacing their fingers together. The squeak that escaped his throat as he was shoved up against a wall - and a tongue was shoved into his mouth.  
Oh, the _moan_ that came from House’s mouth--  
What?  
No, really, _what the fuck?_

As soon as it started, it stopped. Wilson pushed House off of him, panting, lips swollen, and eyes darting. He gaped like a fish, face heated and hands poised rather defensively in the air. He watched House, who seemed calm, though was actually blushing.  
“...House.” Wilson whispered, so quietly it was nearly missed by both men, as it dawned on him. Slowly, he reached up to touch his still-parted lips, Adam’s apple bobbing. House smiled halfheartedly, looking away to gaze at the ground, like he was nervous… Like he was afraid of rejection.  
House was… Into him?

“Sorry.” House breathed, a tiny grin on his face.  
“No you’re not.” Wilson laughed, approaching his best friend, his hand slipping into House’s.  
“No I’m not.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a vent about my own disorganized writing. It's such a horrible feeling to be good at something you hate, but terrible at something you love.  
> Also, this is my first story on here. I'd really appreciate some constructive criticism, I've never really shared my work before so it'd be nice to know what I could work on.


End file.
